Innocent Intent
by RedRedRosy
Summary: A misunderstanding and a confrontation between two countries brings about a deeper understanding between them.


A/N: I don't know why I wrote this. The scene has been playing in my head for a few days, but I've never really written a Hetalia fanfic before. It was fun though. Let me know how it turned out.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or the countries the characters are based off of.

* * *

**Innocent Intent**

It's an awful truth that suffering can deepen us, give a greater luster to our colors, a richer resonance to our words. - Anne Rice, _The Queen of the Damned_

* * *

Another world conference had ended and America was bored again. Most of the other countries were occupying the large rooms of the mansion in groups, talking amongst themselves casually and wasting time. Alfred would be down there with them if he were not suffering from a crash due to all of the energy drinks he'd had earlier. His flight had been the night before, and he had not wanted to sleep at the time, so in order to stay awake during the meeting he downed as many sugar or caffeine-filled drinks as he could get his hands on. It left him in a rather melancholic mood, and he didn't want the other countries to see him.

He walked around the conference room, pushing in out-of-order chairs and looking at the intricacies decorating the room. He was quickly bored of the activity; however, he had gained a new appreciation for what beauty rank brings. He exited the room, walking down a short hallway to the waiting room, intending to sleep for a while in its private confines. Instead he found a dozing Russia there. Ivan was lying across one of the two couches occupying the room, his long body extending past the length of the couch, feet crossed over one of the arms. One hand behind his head, the other lying limply across his stomach, Russia slept peacefully.

Perfectly aware what the polite thing to do would be, Alfred chose to ignore it. He crept towards the larger nation with the intent of seeing the rumored scar adorning Russia's stomach. He had heard Switzerland talking about it, and frankly, it had made him very curious. He wanted to see how his own scars stood in comparison, though he had a creeping suspicion that he would fall in the shadow of Russia's history.

Carefully moving the arm lying across Russia's stomach, America began to undo and shift through the man's large coat. It was difficult moving, not wanting to wake the dangerous nation, and Alfred restrained a groan when he found that there were two shirts beneath the coat, the second which he discovered from having unbuttoned two buttons of the first and both of which were tucked neatly into Ivan's pants. It would be hell getting through all of that soundlessly, motionlessly. But America was nothing if not gutsy, and he began to continue the unbuttoning. When he got to the bottom without having bothered Russia, he cautiously started to pull out the hem.

He had about three safe seconds to do so before there was a large, gloved hand wrapped tightly around his throat and a heavy body falling on top of him, crushing him against the floor. He had messed up, woken Russia somehow, and he had not prepared for the consequences. Without mind enough to try explaining himself, Alfred took firm hold of Ivan's wrist, using his elbow to drive the hold loose and push the hand off of his throat. Ivan's other hand, however, had come down hard on his jaw. Luckily Russia had only just woken and his strength wasn't at its max, otherwise Alfred might have been suffering a broken jaw. Instead his lips busted against his gnashed teeth. He caught hold of the arm as it pulled back to swing again, using force to push it back. Russia's other hand caught him at his left eye, and dazed he didn't have time to catch it before it slammed down again, this time breaking skin.

Unable to block the fist, America shot his straight into what he assumed was the head of the hulking shadow. He repeated this three times, each time hurting his knuckles worse as his aim continued to fall lower. He was satisfied, however, when he felt the trickling of blood falling on his clean cheek. The both of them were grunting and growling, America noticed, and, gaining his senses, he yelled harshly, "Get off of me! _Get off_!"

This scream being accented by another jab, America heard the commotion of the others rushing down the hall. He had forgotten that there was a room directly under this one. Britain particularly liked it, so America wasn't surprised when he heard the familiar tones of Author's voice mixed in with the others. France burst through the door first, blurting out, "What's going on?"

Ivan pulled away, and Alfred noticed for the first time that he was being straddled by the nation. He started beating and pushing against Russia's chest, repeating, "Get off of me!"

"What on earth happened?" Britain asked, coming forward to help America as Russia stood up. "Are you all right? You're both bleeding!"

"Who started this?" Germany asked, authoritative as ever. He received no answer for his trouble. Alfred, now standing, spat a wad of blood at the corner of the couch and Ivan was looking quietly at the blood dripping down on his scarf. Ludwig sighed with quick exasperation. "Look, we need to know how serious -"

"It's not serious at all," America interrupted. "It was a misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about."

"You don't have to talk about it now," France spoke. Britain, hands still working to make sure that America was steady, was quick to agree. "Yes," he said softly. "You should go clean up."

Alfred nodded, afraid that if he spoke any more his voice would involuntarily crack. The adrenaline was leaving his system and sore exhaustion was seeping into his arms. How hard had his muscled worked keeping Russia at bay? And what the fuck was with that reaction? He attacked him over nothing! Rage had his stomach clenched tightly, and he had to stop himself from breathing when he saw his cracked glasses lying bent at Russia's feet. The man had clearly taken no notice of them, but it was obvious that he had not made contact with them since the skirmish. Releasing the shallow breath, America ran a hand over his mouth. "I'm going to the bathroom," he said as he became aware of the blood.

Everyone stepped aside as he made his way through the small crowd; France, Germany, Italy, Spain, and Canada. Matthew leaned towards him, worry very clearly etched in his face. He started, "Alfred-"

"I'm fine," he answered shortly.

"Right."

He made it to the large, fancy bathroom without many interruptions. He had a quick run-in with Japan, but the quiet, polite nation only gave him a strange look and a soft greeting before dismissing him. He shut the bathroom door, but called out to see if anyone else was present before locking it. The lights were bright, especially against the white flooring and counters. The walls were a cream color with the occasional crest of red patterned in one repeating rim at the bottom. Alfred immediately grabbed paper towels before heading to one of the sinks. He didn't stop at the closest one, instead finding himself standing in front of one in the middle. He removed his gloves and turned on the sink, wetting one of the towels as he examined himself in the mirror.

He found that his top lip had split only once, but his bottom had suffered three; the skin below his left eye and along that cheekbone was red and yellowing, no doubt in preparation of bruising; at there was a cut along his left eyebrow. He started washing away the blood at his chin, finding yellow skin there too. Breathing harshly, he continued to clean himself up, wiping away most of the blood. He took another towel and wet half of it, wiping away the blood that had crept into his hair and on his forehead from the cut on his eyebrow and drying it afterwards. Britain would likely have some bandages to give him until the bleeding stopped. And perhaps Author himself would get him a milkshake without complaint, just this once.

He started washing his hands, taking care to check the knuckles along his left hand. They were red but otherwise in supreme condition. He hadn't broken anything, thank goodness. As he finished with that, he began folding the last towel to put between his lips. Before he had the time to fold more than one corner, there was a knock at the door. He groaned slightly, but left his work.

He unlocked the door and hollered, "Come in!" He rushed back, not bothering to check who it was. He didn't really care, and he wasn't surprised when he heard the heavy footsteps. He was almost suspecting them. As he reached the sink, he glanced back at Ivan. The man hadn't bothered to clean himself at all, his nose having bled down his chin. Alfred couldn't really tell, but he thought that Russia also sustained a busted lip. There was too much red to be sure.

Ivan held up his hand, in which were America's glasses. Alfred smirked and turned away. "Is this your way of apologizing? It's pretty pathetic. I don't want them. They're ruined."

He wasn't sure what Russia's answer would be, but he continued focusing his attention on folding the towel. He heard Ivan step closer to him, heard the clinks as he set the glasses down on the countertop. "I wasn't going to apologize," he started. "I'm still suspicious of whatever you were doing, but I am sorry to have hurt and embarrassed you."

America threw his folded square down, turning to fully face Russia. "I'm not here asking for your pity. I don't _want anything from _you. And would you stop it with all of that polite bullshit?"

"You're angry," Ivan stated blankly.

"Fuck, yes! I was trying to see your scar, you asshole!"

This created a pause. "My scar?"

"Yes! What did you think I was doing, molesting you?"

When Ivan took too long to answer, Alfred turned away, picking up his towel. His fingers were too stiff with anger to actually fix it, so he just stood there with it clutched in his palm. After a moment he heard a rustling coming from Russia's direction, and turning, he saw that Ivan had removed his coat and was unbuttoning his pants, pulling out the hems of his shirts. America looked away. "You don't have to do that."

"Look," Ivan said. Alfred did so, seeing that the Russian had raised the white undershirt over his stomach for him to view the shiny scar beneath. It was a thick ragged edge that ran from Ivan's hip to just above his bellybutton. The violet eyes showed no emotion, embarrassment or anger. There was a calmness to them, a detachment. America stepped away from the sink, attention drawn away from the scar displayed before him. "What's wrong?" he asked sincerely.

"Hm? Oh, it's nothing. I'm fine." After a moment of silence wherein Russia began to button up his shirt, he asked, "What made you think there was anything wrong?"

"I don't know."

Ivan began to chuckle.

"What is it now?" Alfred was truly worried. There was a sharpness now, no longer a disinterest. There existed a passion, a warmth, however hard and cruel it seemed. "What's so funny?"

"Have you ever thought about it? Me, I mean. About how I act or how those around me act."

"They're scared," he answered slowly, lightly. "No one bothers you."

"And today? No one was rushing to help me up either." He continued chuckling, despite America's silent horror. "I don't think anything of it, you know. I grew up harshly. You knew that though. That's why you wanted to see evidence, da?"

Fist clenched, America grunted, "I'm sorry."

Those violet eyes, dark now, were amused. "Don't be. I have no use of it."

"I must seem like a brat to you."

"You all do."

"Oh, nothing personal then?" He paused. "You know I'm not scared of you."

"Are you trying you say you would have helped me up?"

"I'm not. I wouldn't have. But it wouldn't have been because of fear. I respect you."

"Your ideals make little sense. Those you respect do not deserve your help? Do you only treat kindly your equals and those weaker?"

America dashed forward, taking hold of one of those thick arms. "No, you don't understand."

There was that shift in the violet again. It got sharper, and then he felt pinned, pushed back against the counter, Russia's hands on either side of him. "You say I don't understand," Ivan whispered. "What would you care to do for me then, my superpower? Would you give yourself up to prove a point?" He leant forward. "Why must you fight, even when you don't know what you're fighting for?"

"I have to…fight," he gulped, Russia nearing closer, " for t-those who need it."

Ivan smirked, his voice even quieter than before. "I don't need you to fight for me." He leaned just a fraction closer and felt the soft brushing of America's lips. He wondered if he could kiss him, if he could taste that American blood. Alfred made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and Russia pulled away. "I don't need you," he reiterated, "but you are amusing."

Alfred spoke as though his voice had returned. "The feeling is mutual."

Russia smiled and backed away. "Farewell."

"Wait," America blurted. He reached out, grabbing a few paper towels. "Here."

Russia blinked at him and tilted his head slightly before accepting. He repeated his goodbye and quickly left.

* * *

A few months later would be the first time America had spoken to Russia since the incident. He had not avoided him on purpose. Simply by acting his normal self, there had been a rift wherein he had not gained opportunity to speak with the Russian. Alfred was regretting that, and he determined to change the pattern after the world conference. The meeting was shorter than usual and China dragged him away to sample some new food immediately afterwards, and Britain seemed dead set on testing his chess skills. After eating what China shoved in front of him and losing to Britain twice, he made an excuse to go to the bathroom. No one seemed to mind too much, and France immediately sat down in his absence to challenge Britain.

Alfred went back to the conference room where he was sure Russia had stayed when everyone had rushed out. He released a heavy sigh of relief when he saw Ivan sitting near the window, staring out at the clouds. Alfred stepped inside, the door closing shut behind him as he started marching around the long table to where the Russian sat. Ivan looked up at him and smiled slightly, raising his hand in greeting, but Alfred ignored it. He came to stand in front of him and bent down, taking two handfuls of thick scarf and pressing his healed lips against Ivan's cool ones. It took a moment for him to respond, but after a few seconds Russia's hands came up to cradle Alfred's head. They kissed until they couldn't breathe and Alfred had sat in Ivan's lap.

He had a few seconds to pant before Russia again kissed him, this time more passionately. As he started to respond, he felt the sharp stab of a canine tooth breaking skin and a hot tongue running over the bleeding gash. America gasped and pulled away, shouting, "What the hell!"

Russia smiled and pulled him back to place a sweet kiss on his chin. "I wanted to know what you tasted like," he explained.

"You creep," Alfred cursed as Ivan's hands made their way inside his jacket. "No more violence."

"Mm-hmm," Russia answered against his neck.

_Fin._


End file.
